


Jumper Cable

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [11]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Other, experimental piloting techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you ever. You know,” she says, nodding towards the telepathic circuits. “Done it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumper Cable

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Clara and the Doctor are getting it on in the console room and Clara wants to see the Tardis make out with the Doctor, making the Doctor put his cock in telepathic circuits.

“Have you ever. You know,” she says, nodding towards the telepathic circuits. “Done it.”

“Sorry?”

She makes a rude gesture, thumb and index finger in a circle, other index finger pumping through it enthusiastically. “With the TARDIS.”

“I’m going to choose to interpret that as being a question about engineering.” He pulls the goggles off long enough to glare at her, then shoves them back over his eyes, going back to - whatever it is he could possibly be doing with a soldering gun, a grapefruit, and a Casio keyboard.

“So you’ve never-”

“ _No_.”

“Not even a little?”

He rips off the goggles and slams them down on the workbench, then turns to her with a tight, blatantly-fake smile. “I’m sensing an ulterior motive here.”

“She cares for you, loves you, even. What’s the harm in letting her see a more…intimate side of you?”

“And?”

“And I like watching the two of you together. It does-” She spreads her arms wide in an exaggerated shrug. “Something, to me.”

“Congratulations, that’s the strangest sexual confession anyone has ever made to me.” Tapping absently on the table, a flush rising on his neck.

“Can’t be.”

“Close enough.” He stops tapping, looks at her with a mix of resignation, disapproval, and barely-concealed excitement. “I owe you a favor, don’t I.”

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’.

“And you’re calling it in. Right then. Let’s do this.” He gets up and storms past her, leaving a trail of clothing as he goes.

She follows him, stops him when he goes to unbuckle his belt, hands gentle but firm on his wrists. “Slow down there, Flash.”

“We’re about to fuck ourselves into the literal Dark Ages, patience isn’t really the virtue we’re missing here.”

“Slow. _Down._ ”

He slows. Drops his arms to his sides, lets her push him back against the console.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before,” she whispers as she smooths her hands over his chest, down to the angle of his hipbones and dipping beneath his waistband. “Or something like it. All that time, in the vast emptiness of space, the lonely Time Lord and his faithful…” She racks her brain for an acceptable noun. Companion? No. Steed? Oh lord no. “…chariot,” she finishes. Probably could’ve done better, but she’s at the part where she gets to take his cock out of his trousers, so.

“Nothing as explicit as this, no. But there have been. Situations.” His voice shaky, hands clenching the edge of the console.

“Mmm.” She files that information away in the For Future Masturbatory Purposes mental folder, and turns him around. A palm flat on the small of his back, the slightest pressure. He folds down automatically, shoulders braced, arse in the air. Wait. Hold up. “How do we ask her?” She glances around the room, trying to interpret this particular sequence of beeps and hums and blinking lights.

“She knows,” he says. “She always knows. She would have stopped us by now.”

She moves her hand up to rest between his shoulder blades, thumb rubbing his skin softly, then she steps back.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m getting a better view.” Slapping his ass encouragingly, she bounces up the stairs to the mezzanine, leaning over the railing. “At your leisure.”

She’s expected the lights to dim, a needle to drop on a Marvin Gaye record somewhere. If anything, the lights get brighter. Maybe a heightened vibration in the floor of the ship, in its bones, or maybe that’s just her imagination.

He’s in an awkward position, on tip-toes, legs straining and trembling as he doesn’t so much fuck his beloved time capsule as sort of rest inside it, clinging like a starfish. Going by the look on his face, though, something’s happening. Something glorious.

Time passes. She’s got her hands down her pants for most of it, coaxing out a slow-build speculative orgasm (not much to go on, really, aside from the general tableau). And then, because time is still passing and the Doctor is still starfishing, a second, more perfunctory flicked-out thing, and then she frowns and goes to wash up at the sink that is, somehow, inside his copy of _War and Peace_.

The ship is shuddering, landing. Maybe he did fuck them into the Dark Ages. She opens the front door, then quickly closes it. “Doctor, I think we’re inside a sun.”

He’s still jacked in, oblivious to the outside world. The ship does change tune now, hums coalescing into something she’s convinced is the equivalent of a tongue stuck out and a triumphant, taunting grin.

“Lovely. Right. I’ll be here if you need me. Just give a shout, hmm?”

No answer. She rolls her eyes, and settles in at his desk, pushing aside his grapefruit-keytar-thing and pulling out a stack of essays to mark. Today’s topic being, predictably enough, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. She sighs and gets to work, ignoring the happy little warbling noises being piped through the speakers.


End file.
